The fervent underlid, and that above Lifted with laughter or abashed with love; Thine amorous girdle, full of thee and fair, And leavings of the lilies in thine hair. Yea, all sweet words of thine and all thy ways, And all the fruit of nights and flower of days, And stinging lips wherein the hot sweet brine That Love was born of burns and foams like wine, And eyes insatiable of amorous hours, Fervent as fire and delicate as flowers, Coloured like night at heart, but cloven through Like night with flame, dyed round like night with blue, Clothed with deep eyelids under and above-- Yea, all thy beauty sickens me with love; Thy girdle empty of thee and now not fair, And ruinous lilies in thy languid hair. Ah, take no thought for Love's sake; shall this be, And she who loves thy lover not love thee? Sweet soul, sweet mouth of all that laughs and lives, Mine is she, very mine; and she forgives. For I beheld in sleep the light that is In her high place in Paphos, heard the kiss Of body and soul that mix with eager tears And laughter stinging through the eyes and ears; Saw Love, as burning flame from crown to feet, Imperishable, upon her storied seat; Clear eyelids lifted toward the north and south, A mind of many colours, and a mouth Of many tunes and kisses; and she bowed, With all her subtle face laughing aloud, Bowed down upon me, saying, "Who doth thee wrong, Sappho?" but thou--thy body is the song, Thy mouth the music; thou art more than I, Though my voice die not till the whole world die; Though men that hear it madden; though love weep, Though nature change, though shame be charmed to sleep. Ah, wilt thou slay me lest I kiss thee dead? Yet the queen laughed from her sweet heart and said: "Even she that flies shall follow for thy sake, And she shall give thee gifts that would not take, Shall kiss that would not kiss thee" (yea, kiss me) "When thou wouldst not"--when I would not kiss thee! Ah, more to me than all men as thou art, Shall not my songs assuage her at the heart? Ah, sweet to me as life seems sweet to death, Why should her wrath fill thee with fearful breath? Nay, sweet, for is she God alone? hath she Made earth and all the centuries of the sea, Taught the sun ways to travel, woven most fine The moonbeams, shed the starbeams forth as wine, Bound with her myrtles, beaten with her rods, The young men and the maidens and the gods? Have we not lips to love with, eyes for tears, And summer and flower of women and of years? Stars for the foot of morning, and for noon Sunlight, and exaltation of the moon; Waters that answer waters, fields that wear Lilies, and languor of the Lesbian air? Beyond those flying feet of fluttered doves, Are there not other gods for other loves? Yea, though she scourge thee, sweetest, for my sake, Blossom not thorns and flowers not blood should break.